


On Steady Ground

by barrelrider



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Parentlock, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/pseuds/barrelrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish's eyes are wide, tear-filled, and scared, and Sherlock's shaking hands bring the boy closer so he can hold onto his father for comfort. He needs it. They both do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Steady Ground

It is a sunny afternoon, and Hamish Holmes is crying on the pavement.

Walks have become a recreational norm at 221B. It gives Sherlock a healthy distraction (however minimal) and an excuse to hold John's hand in public; John gets a breath of fresh air and normalcy, as well as a chance to hold Sherlock's hand in public; and Hamish gets the chance to wobble his way sluggishly down the walkway with his parents behind him.

Sherlock complains that the going is slow and the walks do more harm than good, but when Hamish looks back at them, turning himself around with tiny steps, and grins, he supposes there could be worse things. It's when John begins to dote incessantly that the going is truly unbearable.

"He's fine, John," Sherlock says with folded arms as he regards a falling, orange blur which turns out to be a leaf. "This is his third time losing his balance. He isn't hurt; let's move on already."

John, on the other hand, is quietly hushing Hamish and has since hoisted him up off the ground. He stands his son up, bracing him as the boy hiccoughs and wipes his big, blue eyes, and he smiles, clearly ignoring his partner. "Ready to go?" he asks the boy, who nods with a watery smile, and not five seconds later Hamish is back to walking along, arms held out, taking large steps for a toddler, stomping on every leaf he can find.

"I know he's fine," John says to Sherlock as they begin to follow the boy. "And I know he's fallen before, and he'll fall again. But I'm not about to yank him up by the arm and tell him to get over it-"

"No, you'd rather waste your breath on inevitable instances when they occur," Sherlock interrupts with a wrinkled nose and a disagreement in his scowling eyes.

John sighs, hands in his pockets, and tries again. "I want him to know he's okay," he starts. "He's shocked; he probably can't tell. And if he can, I want him to know it's okay to fall and cry." He hears Sherlock scoff and feels his fingers curling into a fist in his jeans. "What would you do, then?" he asks, trying to keep his voice level.

Sherlock's lips purse with thought as he consider what his father would do with him. He can't remember, of course, but he can paint a decent picture based upon his relationship with both his parents. "I would let him get up on his own," he states. "Unless he was injured, in which case I would perform whatever duty modern medicine and the Mayo clinic calls for." He can feel John's eyes on him, likely disapproving, so he doesn't look over. "He fell backwards, John. He doesn't need to be comforted-"

"Sherlock," John starts in a warning tone, cutting him off.

The detective stops abruptly and turns to face his partner with a glare. "If we coddle him in response to every fall and stubbed toe and random bout of crying, it will foster an unhealthy dependence on us-"

John's eyes narrow as he spits out a disgusted, "He's thirteen months old, Sherlock; he is dependent on us-"

"-in the _near future_ ," Sherlock clarifies with bite, "one we will be unable to break. He will be insufficient in cognition in comparison to his peers-"

" _Sherlock_ -"

"-and unable to defend himself; he will be overly sensitive, emotionally volatile, and reliant upon us to tide him over!"

Neither of them bother to keep their voices level. They are arguing now, their tones sharp and snippy. It's enough to make Hamish stop in his tracks some fifteen feet from the two of them. He goes to turn around, but he has veered towards the left, and as he turns his right foot misses the walkway, slips on the kerb, and the toddler goes tumbling down into the shoulder of the street.

Wails of sobbed distress catch both Sherlock and John's attention, and they both turn simultaneously to the spot Hamish should be but where he isn't; to the tiny legs kicking in the air; to the jacket-covered child lying on his back in the street, crying out for help. They don't have to exchange a look to know there is a mutual worry and fear passing between them. Both begin to move towards Hamish, but John puts an arm out, effectively stopping Sherlock from attending to his son. It wounds him more than it should, but he doesn't let it show as he trots behind the sprinting soldier who bounds the distance in only a matter of steps.

"Hamish," John says, his voice strong but soothing, "Hamish, love, it's okay, it's okay." His large, tanned hands on the boy seem to instantly calm him. He's still crying, tears rushing down his cheeks and his nose leaking, but he's no longer screaming. John moves to the grass and seats himself, bracing Hamish's back with his propped thigh as he bends the boy forward, still uttering soft phrases like "I know you're scared, but it's okay," and "You're my brave boy, you're very, very brave." Sherlock watches, helpless, on the walkway, knowing that John is looking for a wound on Hamish's tender skull. His fingers grope through the increasingly thick black curls, and occasionally John's roving eyes glance up to make sure his fingers come back dry.

The inspection doesn't last long, and in that time Hamish has calmed into sniffles and babbles of terror. John sighs, relieved that Hamish is okay (after rolling his tiny ankles, brushing dirt off his jacket, and making sure his face is scratch-free), and he kisses Hamish's head, a thumb caressing his cheek. "You're okay, see?" he asks, nuzzling the boy, whose small hands reach for and find his face. John retracts, smiling at Hamish, whose red-rimmed eyes seem intent on looking over him, as if checking to make sure he's okay, too. "I'm fine," he chuckles. "Dadda is, too."

But when he goes to look up at Sherlock, he is no longer there, and down the street, John makes out a coat-covered speck heading back home. John inhales slowly, determined not to let Hamish see his heartbreak, and he forces a smile as he picks up a leaf and offers it to the cooing child.

At least one of them is there for him, he supposes with a sigh.

-

Sherlock ignores both son and partner when they return to 221B forty minutes later. John still makes Sherlock a cup of tea, but it goes untouched. Sherlock occasionally glances at Hamish when Hamish goes quiet from playing and stares at him expectantly, but he always looks away, and Hamish's babbles continue.

John doesn't elect to sleep on the sofa, so Sherlock isn't too worried about their row. He does wonder who will crumble first and admit defeat and wrongdoing. Certainly not him. Still, it's enough to leave him awake, lying on his side facing away from John, staring into the darkness of their bedroom. He doesn't sleep that night.

The next day is slow, dreadfully so. It is pouring rain, making every formerly crunchy leaf a soggy, autumn-coloured mess clogging street drains. John is at work, so Sherlock is alone with his son. He sits in the kitchen at his microscope, examining moulds on various breads he had John pluck up from the store. He can't remember how he convinced his partner of it, not when they're fighting. He has trouble remembering how John can even love him when they're fighting.

He has since made amends to Hamish. Early in the morning, he left John's side and sat upstairs with the boy, reading from one of the encyclopaedias he uses to send Hamish off. His voice is quiet and draws out information on Morocco for what seems like days until Hamish finally awakens with a mighty yawn and a sleepy babble. Sherlock greets him with a kiss to his forehead. Hamish kicks and giggles with glee, smiling brightly, and Sherlock knows he is forgiven.

He trusts Hamish has forgiven him enough to allow them to do their things separately: Hamish crawling about in the baby-proofed sitting room, and him at his scope. He does occasionally check on the boy, even plays with him for a few minutes, then returns to the experiment he has neglected in favour of time with his family.

But he needs to finish it now. It's important. It's important because it's distracting, and he doesn't have to think about John when he's preoccupied with a fascinating colony on rye.

A series of earth-shattering noises is enough to shake his priorities. In retrospect, he knows they are not truly deafening, but the scenarios he plays in his mind as they happen are gruesome, and unforgiving, and if they had been true his world would have truly been broken. It starts with toddling footsteps and babbles from what Sherlock estimates is the foot of John's chair. The footsteps begin to move faster and faster, thundering along like a herd of elephants. Hamish is running, then. Sherlock begins to wonder how he knows how to run already when he has just begin mastering the art of walking upright. His wonder turns into terrific reality when something heavy thuds hard against the wood of the coffee table and something heavier collapses on the ground.

There is no crying. There is no noise, except the sound of Sherlock's chair skidding with lightning speed across the kitchen floor and crashing near the sink; except the sound of his heavy steps, one, two, three, four, into the sitting room. He sees Hamish on his back, flailing in spasming desperation, slowly turning pink in the face. Sherlock doesn't need an expert's opinion on the internet or in some book from 1997 to know that Hamish tripped into the coffee table, which he thought was put safely into a corner (and he'd moved it out earlier to reach a fallen music sheet, and he didn't put it back, and he didn't notice, _how didn't he notice_ ) and has had the wind knocked from him, but he doesn't know what to do about it.

All at once, his dismissive words from yesterday rush through his mind and collapse under the weight of guilt, and blame, and parental instinct surging badly through him. Sherlock is at Hamish's side seconds later, whispering to him like John would - "Hamish, _Hamish_ , look at me, look at - look at Dadda"; and he never uses that nickname, never - and cradling him carefully. Hamish coughs weakly, reaching out to Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock knows he needs to get Mrs. Hudson - no, she's at her sister's. He needs to call John - no, he's at work and said emergency calls only, but this is an emergency, no, no it isn't, Hamish isn't hurt, God, is he hurt? Why hadn't he checked? The pediatrician, he needs to get to the pediatrician, and letting himself doddle, letting Hamish touch his cheeks, would only be wasting time.

But Hamish's eyes are wide, tear-filled, and scared, and Sherlock's shaking hands bring the boy closer so he can hold onto his father for comfort. He needs it. They both do.

Sherlock is up and heading to the emergency contact list on the refrigerator, holding Hamish, letting his impossibly-tiny, adorable, sausage-like fingers caress the skin of his cheekbones. All the while, Sherlock utters, "Breathe, please breathe," and mentally recites the most recent mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and CPR techniques. His eyes dash from the phone number of Hamish's doctor to the boy himself. It's been seven seconds, and Hamish still isn't breathing. His lips are quivering. His face is red.

Sodding his coat and scarf, Sherlock blindly grabs his key, his phone, and on a second, lingering thought, Hamish's preferred blanket and toy - both depicting bees - and is down the stairs and into the foyer in bounds and leaps and record time, still holding Hamish.

Eleven seconds without breath. Hamish's flailing is lessening. Sherlock's heart is pounding. " _Breathe_."

Hunched over and shielding Hamish from the downpour, Sherlock hails the first cab he sees, even walks into the street to make sure it stops, and barks out the address of the hospital and begs, actually begs and entices with promise of 300% of the fare, if the cabby gets them there as soon as possible. Sherlock can't deduce whether it's the monetary promise, or the red-faced, still toddler in his arms, desperately trying to keep his hands on his father's cheeks, or his own panicked voice and face that makes the cabby nod in registration and rush off, but whatever it is, he's relieved it's happening. He should be frustrated that he can't deduce, and that he was begging, and that John isn't there to guide him, but he's simply glad they're on their way.

Twenty-two seconds. Hamish spasms slightly. Sherlock hears himself beg, "Please-"

Relief refinds Sherlock as Hamish takes his first breath after an nail-biting twenty-four seconds. It starts with a cough, then a wavering, deep inhale that leaves the boy inflated and kicking, and another cough, and another, and a breath, and another cough. But the feeling of utter joy at the fact that his son is breathing floods Sherlock and seems to overflow through every pore. "Hamish," he catches himself saying, nearly a sob, as he holds his son out to inspect him and make sure he isn't dreaming.

The boy is silent for a few seconds, simply gasping in breath, before a pathetic cry escapes him, weak and tired, and for once Sherlock is happy that his son is crying, and he is happy when it grows in strength, and he is happy when Hamish grabs his shirt collar and sobs, his wails trembling and broken by coughing and hiccoughs.

Sherlock is so happy that he holds his son close - not too tight, not enough to rob Hamish of precious air - and whispers into his hair, "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_."

Only when Hamish's weeping quiets and the boy is satisfied enough to let go of Sherlock's shirt can he pull his son back to inspect him. He finds a red, indented on Hamish's left temple where he suspects he hit the corner of the coffee table, but otherwise he is free of external injury. He looks closely at Hamish's eyes and sighs when he sees both are dilated normally in the darkness, and they flash bright blue innocence upon him when they pass under a street lamp. Hamish is sniffling and coughing every few breaths, but he is breathing, and it is a beautiful sight. He watches Sherlock with something like wonder; like he is so disbelieving that it's Dadda, not Papa, who was there for him.

A sinking feeling makes Sherlock tilt his head down, away from Hamish's face. He frowns lightly and swallows a tightness in his throat he didn't know he had. He hears splashes from puddles and the rain on the roof of the car, and Hamish's quiet coos and infrequent coughs, and his own words. He's saying something he can't quite decipher, not until he forces his adrenaline-soaked brain to tune in.

Sherlock understands why he was deaf to his own words, because he hears himself speak in a soft, shame-filled voice, over and over again, saying, "I'm sorry."

Fingers on his lips make him go quiet. His eyes peer up at Hamish through his eyelashes, and the boy is staring at him like he always does - a look which, according to John, is of sheer admiration, and amazement, and respect; a look that, according to John - stupid, sentimental, correct John - is one that he himself gives Sherlock. "Gets that from me," John said of the gaze once, smiling softly at their son before looking at his partner the very same way.

Sherlock never knows what to do when John and Hamish look at him like that, but for the moment, he leans forward, kisses Hamish's forehead, and noses him fondly when he hears a happy coo in reply.

Even if the cabby had rushed and broken several traffic laws, he still only accepts his usual fare and a small tip, and he parts with the father and son by complimenting Sherlock's skills as a parent, and it all leaves Sherlock even more dazed. He breaches the footsteps and enters the hospital and straightens himself up and out of his protective cover for his son, who has since been swaddled in the warmth of his blanket and is playing with his stuffed bee. Sherlock now has the clarity to check in with their pediatrician, who is thankfully still in the building and currently without a patient to occupy his time. Sherlock informs the doctor of his suspicions and reluctantly lets go of his son to let the man inspect him himself. It gives him time to call John, something he has been dreading.

The instant John answers, he begins by saying, "Is everything okay?", and even if John is perhaps not speaking of him, Sherlock wants to reach through the phone and kiss John for asking nonetheless.

Sherlock is quiet for a few moments as he tries to forumlate a reply. He realises he will likely have to redact his idiotic opinion from the previous day, and will be reprehended for leaving the table out, and will be scolded for not calling sooner. He looks into the room and receives a curious glance from Hamish as well as a smile and a thumbs up from the pediatrician, who seems to be near finished.

"Sherlock?" John asks again, his voice both agitated and worried.

Sherlock inhales slowly and looks down the hall as he begins with, "Hamish fell."

The conversation is briefer than Sherlock expected it to be, and John is calmer than he anticipated. He sticks to facts and details and Sherlock relays them. John does not scold him and does not sigh. In fact, he even says he is proud that Sherlock is at the doctor's; and Sherlock himself had been questioning whether it was necessary. With a request for an umbrella and John's immediate presence, Sherlock ends the call and turns into the office.

When the door clicks shut, the aged pediatrician, wearing a friendly smile, starts with, "You probably feel like the worst father in the world."

Sherlock's brows furrow. His lips part to tear the man to bits (although there isn't much to tear into; he's really an average man without great scandal to blackmail with), but the doctor chuckles. Sherlock supposes the pediatrician thinks he knows Sherlock's character, since he and John have used him since Hamish first came to them. "You're not," the man assures him. "Every parent who turns away and finds their child on the ground crying thinks they're the worst parent ever. I've had women call my house phone screaming that their daughters have rolled off the changing table. My wife doesn't appreciate it, let me tell you."

The man's hazel eyes watch Sherlock as he approaches the examination table and strokes Hamish's head fondly. The boy has occupied himself with waving his bee ecstatically, and when he drops it, Sherlock does not hesitate to retrieve it for him. “Even now, you're worried. He's sitting on the edge of the table. He could fall.” Blue eyes peer up at him almost threateningly, so the pediatrician raises his hands and offers, “It's reality, and as a parent you assess the dangers and the chances. But you can't protect your kids from everything.”

“I'm aware,” Sherlock rumbles, placated for the time being. He gazes at Hamish. “However, John insists on coddling him in the face of every possible threat. I tried to tell him-”

“What's wrong with that?” the doctor asks. His head is tilted. He sees Sherlock's face and says, “You can overdo it, of course. It's possible, and it's a risk. But, if your child trips into a table and gets the wind knocked out of them, you don't set them back up, give them a pat on the back, and walk away.” Something in Sherlock's eyes changes, but he says nothing and lets the man continue. “You comfort them. Tell them it's okay. And as they get older, they learn that it really _is_ okay, and that falling backwards doesn't mean they can't get back up themselves.”

A crinkle-eyed smile comes to the pediatrician's face, and Sherlock thinks that he looks like John will in twenty or thirty years. “And,” he adds, “they'll know that if it's ever not okay, their parents will be there for them.” Hamish looks up at Sherlock, and Sherlock returns the look. “They know they're loved,” says the doctor, and Sherlock's hand runs through Hamish's hair; and Hamish leans into the touch, swinging his legs in the air and holding tight to his plush bee.

By the time John gets to the hospital, Sherlock and Hamish are finished with the examination and are in the waiting room. Hamish is wrapped in his blanket and is walking around with Sherlock keeping an unwavering eye on him. When he sees John approaching, Hamish coos excitedly, drops his blanket, and begins to toddle over, bouncing from leg to leg. John meets him more than halfway and smiles brightly, nuzzling the boy and picking him up, and as he lifts Hamish above his head he calls Hamish brave once and again, and Sherlock feels something in his chest go warm.

Hamish in his arms, John moves to retrieve his blanket, but Sherlock beats him to it and offers the soft article from his crouch on the ground. John accepts it and wraps it around Hamish again. “So,” he starts with a soft breath. “All's okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies as he stands. “He'll have a bruise, but it's nothing to worry about.”

“Any special instructions?”

“None.”

“Good.”

And that is that. The family is on their way, only this time, it is complete, and they all are shielded from the cascade.

Hamish is fed, bathed, and put to bed quickly, for the instant they got into the cab, the boy alternated between exhausted mumbling and fussy flailing. He is out like a light when he is nestled into his bed, and both his parents kiss him goodnight, and they both trek down the stairs together, leaving Hamish's nightlight rotating and showering his room in dim blue stars.

“So,” John says again, with a huff. “You're a bit of an arse.”

Sherlock knew it was coming. He is determined to take it in stride. “Yes,” he admits, head held high even as he begins nudging the coffee table back in its new corner.

John stoops low and collects Hamish's toys. “I could tell you were scared,” he says as he deposits the mess into the small crate containing the rest of Hamish's playtime jumble. “Just by the way you were with him in the waiting room. And it's okay to be; I would have been, too.” John looks Sherlock's way, noticing his typical avoidant behaviour – his pacing, back to John, finding unnecessary tasks to busy himself. John's voice is tired when he utters, “Please look at me.”

Sherlock obliges him a moment later. John approaches him and places a hand on his arm, saying quietly, “You did good, Sherlock.”

“It was my fault the situation even existed,” Sherlock begins to protest.

“It was an accident,” John says. His voice is firm. The detective begins to open his mouth; the doctor covers it with a finger. “It was an _accident_ ,” he repeats, softer. “You forgot the table was out. Just try not to next time. And, do you see why one of us should always be in the room with him?” Sherlock nods reluctantly, like a child being scolded. “All right, then,” John says decisively, with a nod. “That's all you can do: learn from it. He's okay. We're okay.”

After knowing Sherlock for nearly six years, John has learnt to spot a tell when offered one. Sherlock's silence and his wandering gaze can only mean he is unconvinced. He has never seen Sherlock accept so much responsibility, and blame. It is as refreshing as it is heartbreaking. “Hey,” he utters quietly, his hand going to Sherlock's face. Their eyes meet. “Hamish has forgiven you. I've forgiven you. Time to forgive yourself, yeah?”

His thumb brushes over the angle of Sherlock's cheekbone, and the man before him leans into the touch. “I'll bet you were fantastic,” he utters quietly, stepping closer just so. “And, I'll bet he's as proud of you as I am.”

The flicker of a smile comes to Sherlock's face. “He isn't capable of that higher cognition just yet-”

“It was a joke,” John chuckles with a smile of his own. It makes Sherlock's grow. Both hands find his face, and he utters with certainty, “But you already knew that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies with a smirk. John's smile grows, and he chuckles once again, and his lips find Sherlock's with ease; and they both think the world is right once more.

-

The rain continues to pour down upon London through the night. It lessens during the day, but puddles have formed and umbrellas are being utelised left and right.

Sherlock and John and Hamish huddle beneath one themselves. It is navy with a curved handle which is held by Sherlock. John holds Hamish's hand. The three walk together, though Hamish is enthralled with the earth worms that have come up and stoops low to gawk at them (and then he squeals, bouncing from foot to foot and pointing at them excitedly, grinning madly at his Dadda), and he is fascinated by every running trickle of water and every puddle, so the going is very, very slow. But Sherlock is patient and John is fine. It's all fine.

Hamish falls only once during their rainy walk – if it can be called that. The objective was puddle-stomping, really, an objective Sherlock rolled his eyes at, partially because John and Hamish look silly in rain boots. Hamish's splashing is particularly strong on one puddle, and just as John goes to tell him not to jump so hard, Hamish slips and crashes down to earth. He lands on his bum as he did two days before; and as he did two days before, he begins to cry.

But it is Sherlock to attends to him. He takes the umbrella with him as he treks over to Hamish, and he angles the large contraption so it covers his son from the rain. He picks him up, grumbling something about ground-in stains being difficult to get out, according to Mrs. Hudson, and Hamish goes from crying to sniffling to giggling in a matter of minutes.  
  
Standing under the umbrella with Sherlock knelt before him, Hamish reaches out for the sharp cheekbones again, taking a few wobbly steps forward. Sherlock leans down and covers Hamish's hands when they touch his skin. He smiles gently at the boy, who grins back and laughs happily, and with a quietly uttered, “We're okay,” he waits for John to come over and lets him handle the umbrella. Sherlock happily assumes hand-holding duty.

John smiles at him softly – the inspired, awe-struck gaze he and Hamish share – and once he's captured it, Sherlock's lips curl pleasantly in return. He kisses the corner of John's mouth and squeezes Hamish's hand.

Hamish returns the squeeze with all his might, and they walk on.


End file.
